


the call

by would_you_like_some_angst_with_that



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, Sex, Suicide mention, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 07:45:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4296462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/would_you_like_some_angst_with_that/pseuds/would_you_like_some_angst_with_that
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After 'Chosen', Buffy calls Angel to tell him that the world is saved and that Spike is dead.<br/>Angel has feelings about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the call

It was four o’clock in the morning when he got the call.

 _It’s done, it’s over_ , she had said.  _We won._

He couldn’t help but notice the complete exhaustion in her voice. He knew that all she wanted now was to lay down and rest, just for a moment, to forget about all of the deaths, the sacrifices she had had to make, and what was yet to come. But they both knew that’s not how this ride played out. There was never time for rest, never time to step back and take yourself off the merry-go-round of life for a quick breather. And so he asked,

 _What now_.

 _I don’t know_ , she had replied.  _I know I said it was over. But it’s not. It will never be over._

She had whispered then and he had heard clear defeat.

_It never stops._

But she had collected herself and with a big sigh and a show of energy,

_But now we have help and we need to train all the girls. I’m thinking that maybe now would be a good time—_

The defeat melted into a joke, like he had heard it done countless times before,

_–to take that trip to Europe I always wanted to take._

_You want to stop by L.A. on your way there?_

_Yeah,_ she had whispered _. Yeah, that would be nice._

They met in the airport a few hours later. They sat down at a coffee table near her gate, the early morning airport noises humming in the background, the sun rising slowly in front of them. After the banal small talk about how the flight had been, they let the uneasy silence grow familiar between them until he asked the question that had been burning at his mind since she had called.

_Who wore the amulet in the end?_

She looked at him, hard and deliberate, and that was all he needed, to know.

His defensiveness sprang up and—

 _No_ , she had snapped, her eyes turning cold. Without blinking, without breaking his gaze, she said,

_He’s dead._

He was the first to blink, to look down at his hands, suddenly very unsure of what to do, suddenly feeling very, very small.

Minutes passed before either of them said a word, the sunshine beginning to threaten to turn the vampire into dust now and the airport noise growing to a low buzz.

_I’m sorry._

She was on the verge of opening her mouth to tell him off for lying, she didn’t need his fucking macho shit right now, when he looked up and she saw, the breath suddenly knocked out of her, that he had meant it completely. There was more understanding, more sincerity and sympathy in his eyes than she had seen from him in a long time and she was struggling to remember now if she had even seen it after her mother had died. It was her turn to drop her eyes.

_Europe is beautiful. You’ll really like it._

She nodded, thankful for the change of subject.

_You would know, wouldn’t you?_

She smiled at him then and the moment broke.

It would be the same as always between them. This routine of near and full deaths, of helping the helpless and saving the world, had long lost their shock value and adrenaline rush. There were times now, more often than not, when nagging voices asked if this all really was worth it, if it wouldn’t be best if weapons and bodies were laid down and never forced to rise. And these voices were tempting and they were easy to listen to, but there were other voices that were more nagging, that were louder and angrier, that insisted that they keep standing.

 _It_  would never stop and  _they_  would never stop because this is what they  _did_ , these were their destinies (how they both hated that word and how they had tried to run away from it their entire lives, to beat it down, to destroy it, and yet they could not escape it, could not deny that no matter how many times they tried, this was it, this was what they had to do, until they were turned to worm food, they would keep fighting).

And so Buffy boarded her plane and Angel went back to Wolfram & Hart. At the front desk, he told Harmony to cancel all of his appointments that day and to not let anyone disturb him unless it was an emergency. And he really meant it this time, Harmony, a real emergency, not like that time that you were out of nail polish, alright? Alright.

He locked his office door behind him and walked to the cabinet. Opened it up, and took out the bottle of whiskey that had been left there by his predecessor. Poured himself a glass, wearily sat down in his chair, facing the sun fully.

So. Spike was dead. And he had died saving the world.

Well, fine.

Angel sipped his drink. He was prepared to believe that, but he refused to believe that the younger vampire had done it out of pure intentions. If Angel had to bet, he would have done so heavily on the fact that Spike had done it for Buffy, to make her remember him as a hero, not the pathetic shit that he really was.

Angel sighed.

His jealousy was showing. But it wasn’t  _fair_  that Buffy hadn’t chosen him. After everything, after all this time, he was the one who deserved that recognition, that martyrdom. It was his name that should have been on her lips at the end, it was he who she should be grieving over now. Because  _he_  had been the one fighting every single day,  _he_  had been the one who had had to sacrifice everything, his friends, his lovers, his  _son_ , and  _he_  had suffered years with the guilt and the hatred and the voices, and if one were to be completely honest, Spike, even now, couldn’t have comprehended the disgusting, brutal, truly sick things that Angelus had done, no, no,  **no** , see, he was the one who deserved it, he was the  _one_.

Angel looked down, surprised to see that the whiskey was no longer in the glass, that it was on his hands, mixing with his blood, and that the glass was in broken shards on the rug.

Well, now, Spike was dead, and he really was just the one.

Angel stood up, his bones creaking, realising that he hadn’t had a day off in who the hell could remember how long and he couldn’t recall when he had slept last.

He stepped into his bathroom, began washing the liquor and blood off his hands, barely registering the sting of pain. Taking the towel off the hook, he wiped his hands and face and slowly put it back down.

Spike was dead. And he was the one left now.

No more annoying peroxide hair talking back at him. No more irritating banter that would invariably end up in bloody messes and broken bones. No more need to teach any lessons. No more beatings. No more howls of pain and laughter and sometimes, of pleasure. No more attempts of breaking down that young boy with the mouth that was both impossibly innocent and sinful. No more attempts of destroying that will that was unparalleled in its stubbornness. No more of the thrills that they had had together, killing and fucking their victims side by side, this strange sense of companionship washing over them. No more looking on as the man turned into a monster, turned into everything he had once feared and despised, knowing it was because of  _him_  that he had become like this. No more of that sharp, sweet tongue to punish and no more of those cold, blue eyes glaring back him with insolence while his mouth was otherwise occupied.

And no more of wondering what it would be like to not be alone. Beyond his warped sense of self-righteousness and his special snowflake complex, Angel desperately needed someone to understand, someone that didn’t need an explanation for why, someone that would just  _know_. Even now, he still would wake nights, horrendous shrieks and useless begging echoing in his mind for days. It was getting harder and harder to wake up and to not walk out into the sunlight, harder and harder to find a reason for why this endless fight wasn’t pointless.

Angel walked out of the bathroom, noticed the sun was on its way down.

And no more of that godawful poetry.

Spike was dead.

And he was the one.


End file.
